Friday, April 2, 2010
Somehow it seems appropriate to have purple flowers for Good Friday. I remember going to the church as a child and everything was covered in purple. There was a strange feel about the day, everything seemed very silent and sombre. How different from today, when all the shops are open and it is business as usual. My father was buried on a Good Friday, which also seemed appropriate. That year it was on April 5th, so not very far away from this year. I remember the bleakness of being in the church for the funeral service, listening to music that I cannot now hear without weeping, 14 years later. It was cold that year too, and I remember standing at his graveside and the utter devastation of having to turn around, walk away, and go home. Without him. We came home and spent the afternoon painting eggs with my mother and the children trying to 'carry on as normal'. And I remember sitting beside my mother on Easter Sunday morning in church, when the joyful celebration was over, and she sobbed with grief because joy was the last thing in the world she could feel. Easter is a strange time of year, both bitter and joyful, and always, for me, tinged with sadness.